Happy Mother's Day
by HeroineGauddess
Summary: Future-fic! One-shot. Sequel to Henry Reminisces. Henry finds himself back in Storybrooke and in need of some help with little Eva. Who else to turn to but the one who's taken care of a baby before? Please R&R!


**Author's Notes: **I have honestly no idea where this came from. I literally just finished writing it. I suppose this is a sequel to _Henry Reminisces_ because it apparently asked more questions than it answered, not that I was trying to answer any questions, but I hope this does.

Also, I stole some lines from the movie _White Oleander_. I hope no one minds, I thought they fit pretty well.

Please don't forget to review!

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Two years after he and Paige moved to Boston, Henry finds himself on his mother's front stoop. He hesitates to ring the bell because it's practically the crack of Sunday morning and he dreads the mere thought of disturbing her, especially this early. If at all. The diner isn't even open yet, otherwise he would've held out there a couple hours.

He settles for a soft rhythmic knock at first and waits a few minutes, hoping that that's all it will take. The woman had never been a heavy sleeper. Probably even less now, he surmises, since the curse broke.

It's still dark out as the street lights have yet to switch off and Henry believes he can hear Ruby howl in the distance, but thinks better of it when he notes the absence of a full moon. A bird's chirp steals his attention for a moment and he glances over at the bushes that line the walkway behind him. Maybe he could just let himself in with the key that's probably still hidden under the mat, the one he used to leave for Emma those year ago. But he's immediately brought out of his reverie at the sound of a bolt unlatching. The door then swings open revealing the man he was also hoping to avoid. At least, not until much later in the day.

Hook rubs his eyes with his good hand, indicating that he'd in fact been asleep, appearing tasseled and not fully awake. Once his eyes focus on who stands in front of him through squinted slits, confusion slowly tugs at the older man's brow and Henry grins apologetically, or for as long as he can muster before it gives way from exhaustion.

It's a bit intimidating as Henry can't help but compare himself to the man opposite him. Hook's attired in nothing but a pair of boxers. Except that isn't what shames Henry. It's the toned build that ripples from the older man's slender frame. Henry can't seem to rid himself of the small amount of baby fat hes had since he was a child.

Henry then follows the older man's gaze peering past him towards the car parked by the curb and they share an expression of understanding. The door widens and just as Henry steps past, the older man clears his throat.

"She's out back," says Hook, his foreign accent catching over each word as the metal ligament scratches the back of his neck. "On the deck."

They exchange uneasy smiles and curt nods before the front door closes and latches again, taking their individual leaves—the older man trudges back up the staircase while Henry makes his way to the back of the house.

There, he finds her, on the porch swing, staring out across the yard that is her domain. The tall wooden fence that lines her property from the neighbors is much like a cage and she lounges like a panther. He can't help but linger by the screen door at how serene she appears. Beautiful. Dangerous. Proud. Those walls of hers drawn down and permitting what she keeps locked behind them to breathe.

Her legs are stretched out along the bench seat, crossed at the ankles as she leans against a wooden armrest. He isn't surprised to see her in silk pajamas. But her hair...her long ebony curls are threaded in a lose braid over a shoulder.

He forgets himself and soon the sun ascends above the treeline when her voice reaches out to him.

"Henry," she whispers, the words caressing his ears, almost lost among the soft whistle of the summer breeze. And all at once he's eleven years old and she's his mother again.

He blinks, feeling that hes been given permission to approach, so he does. "How'd you know it was me?"

Curiosity has always been, as it will always be, his liberation as well as his downfall. Some things aren't meant to be questioned, wither by design or immediate understanding. But he silently curses himself, nevertheless.

"Dear, I know everything." she declares, a perfect example of how age has mellowed her.

Henry gestures at the cigarette caught between two claw-like fingers that she's flicked with her thumb and watches the gray smoke wispily float away, as if she can see him from behind. Maybe she can, he can never be sure, and yet she has to move from her position.

She had initially taken to the drug as a somewhat appropriate release. However, as time went on, its become a bit of a habit, as she's found it doesn't take much to stress her.

He can feel her magic buzzing just under the surface. It isn't enough to be seen or cause alarm, and unless you've spent most of your life in the company of the most powerful of beings like he has, or unless you contain magic yourself, which most don't and do their very best to stay clear of, it's virtually undetectable until it's too late. But it doesn't hurt to know it's there.

"That'll kill you, you know." he blurts. Those charming genes flaunting themselves again, as she often teases. Only when referring to him, anyway.

"Yes, well...wont that be ironic. Borrowed time, I'm sure."

If he's done his math correctly, she'll be seventy eight this year, but, as he walks around to take a seat next to her, lifting her bare feet in the process to drop them in his lap and drape an arm along the back railing of the swing, she doesn't look a day over fifty. Far better than most fifty-year-olds, if her seemingly ageless ethnicity as anything to say about it.

"How can you talk like that?"

Her dark eyes finally meet his for the first time and in genuine offense. "Like what?"

"Like **that**. Like...nothing phases you."

She shakes off his arm that was resting across her legs and nudges it away with her heel. "Why are you here, Henry? Come to badger the Evil Queen?"

"No," he whines, tilting his head and waits for her to relax so he can replace his arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean...I came for advice."

"Advice. On what?"

"Me and Paige are having problems with Eva." He pauses when she bristles at the name, but he knows perfectly well why she does and there's no need to vocalize it. "We've done everything, but she won't stop crying. Well, nothing but driving in the car. A car ride in her seat is the only thing that'll calm her down enough for any of us to get some sleep. A couple more weeks of this and we're not going to be able to afford gas. I just...I don't know. We feed her, we burp her, change her, bath her, and she...just...doesn't like us."

Regina smirks to herself as she blows out another stream of smoke and glances down at her hand in time to see it flick away the ashes. "Oh Henry, surely you don't believe that. She's just a baby."

"I'm serious. My own kid doesn't like me. I tried talking to mo—Emma," he recovers quickly, hoping she hadn't caught it, and suddenly finding the apple tree increasingly interesting. He doesn't need nor want to reopen that can of worms. Though in the way his skin itches when she narrows her gaze at him lets him know she had. "And Snow about it, but they're both just as lost as I am. They've never taken care of a baby before." It softens as his words settle in and he dares to peek up at her from under lashes. "You have, and yet they're the ones who were pregnant."

"Right?" he adds after a second thought and a moment too long of expectant silence. Henry flashes a look of deep inquiry, but her eyes have returned to the horizon.

"I heard you." she assures and only then does it dawn on him that hes inadvertently picked at old wounds that he so desperately wants to rid her of. "Taking care of a child is hard and I wish I could tell you it gets easier. But it doesn't. All I know to tell you is what I did when you were little."

"And that would be?"

"I used to sing to you."

His head slides to the very back of his neck. "You did?"

"Indeed. I'm not surprised you don't recall, it was a great many years ago. Long before you broke my curse." She steals a glimpse at him from her peripheral as she explains. "Way back before you received that book and came to me because you wanted to, not because you needed something."

He pushes off the hardwood and they begin to sway. "You sung to me."

Regina hums.

"Somehow I can't picture you singing."

"Well, I did. And it put you right to sleep. Every time."

"What song?"

"You are my sunshine."

"Why'd you stop?"

"You stopped asking it of me." she says blatantly, before adding under her breath: "Like so many things."

He wants to do something. Hug her, hold her like she will let him do from time to time. When they're alone, of course, because public displays of affection make her nervous, which he completely understands because he's the same exact way. Perhaps she's who he gets it from, and for some reason that makes him feel better.

"You should try it sometime. On the baby, I mean. If she's anything like you, it'll probably do the trick. But if your singing voice is anything like Neal's, it might make things worse."

He rolls his eyes and she smiles wickedly at the gesture.

"So, how are you and Grace—I mean Paige."

"You'd think since you were the one who gave her that name, being the one who cast the curse, you'd remember it." he taunted.

"You'd think."

"We're just taking it one day at a time."

"What about Snow and whats-his-name?"

"David?" he chuckles.

"Oh, so hes decided on his Storybrooke name?"

"No, that was really his name."

"I thought it was James."

"No, that was his brother's name and when he agreed to take his place, that's when people started calling him James. But he was always David."

"Well," she shrugs. "He'll always be a shepherd's boy to me."

And then there are times when Henry notices things that will never change. "Like I said, they don't really know how to take care of a baby."

"What about your mother?"

"That's kind of why I'm here."

"I thought you were here for advice."

"I thought you knew everything." he counters, which takes her aback. A spurt of pride shoots through him in that moment because it's rare to render Regina speechless.

But it never lasts long.

"I haven't spoken nor seen Miss Swan in years, why would you come to me about her?"

"Who said anything about Emma?"

She stands then, slipping her legs off his lap and the last of her cigarette disappears in a puff of smoke of another color.

"Henry," she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You just said you came here for your mother."

"That's right."

He knows she's fully agitated now, but a part of him—most likely the charming part—secretly enjoys egging her on. There's something to be said about the adrenaline of playing with fire, knowing better but doing it anyway. Perhaps it's the same as the sensation of being scared. The thrill, the anticipation, the suspense of having you on the edge of your seat.

Perhaps he's the only one who can push her buttons anymore, or, he gaily likes to believe, he's the only one she _lets_ push her in any sort of way.

"You're my mom too, are you not?"

"Henry. We've been all through this."

"I was a kid, who saw in black and white. And you as the Evil Queen."

"If I'm not the Evil Queen, then who am I?" she demanded, her mask firmly in place and hands on hips.

He frowns and takes a moment to gather himself, because she doesn't realize how much it hurts him to be reminded of how much she still believes it. And he blames himself for playing a part in that endeavor.

"Listen," he speaks up once hes found his voice. "I've got two sleeping beauties in the car because we not only need you, but...we wanted to come."

She stays silent, though the expression on her features tell him all he needs to know.

"I'm sorry too. You're as stubborn as Snow is, at least I know where she gets it from."

"Henry." she grumbles as he stands and pulls her into a hug, which she reluctantly melts into, and pecks her on the cheek.

"Happy mother's day...grandma."

She jerks away just far enough to give him a heated glare. "Don't you even teach her to call me that, either."

It can be too much to handle her temper and her joy with grief. It's hard to imagine for what that grief had cost. Even so, he finds himself thinking of her. Wanting to feel that strength. It's a secret wanting. Like loving someone you can never have. Not completely.

No matter how much she's damaged. No matter how flawed she is. He knows his mother loves him.


End file.
